Saints, you say, are isolé
and martyred for the social good
because they’ve turned away,
but that is not the way it was
before the history
where you play.
The scarified were sacrificed,
back in the day,
because they were a threat,
for the saints desired society
to ungird its loins of slavery
as they had done,
as they had done,
and when they were safely gone,
before the corpse had hit the slab,
they were lions, made into artifacts
because their assassins needed people too,
to believe those were their values too,
the objective and the true,
and it was after all the people’s fault
that those verities would be honored
in the breach instead of the moment.
You would think that after, say,
3,000 years, this would be
understood,
allowed to be talked about
without appeals to the Frankfurt school
of Karl Marx and Wilhelm Hegel
who wrap all terrors in a bow
that opens to the gift
of the prison state teeth naked.
Such glee you characteristically
profess for these ideas,
as if everyone has forgotten this,
as if your cite of obscure
medievalist texts
is proof enough
that the basics
can be freely
dispensed with.
But you found a way to continue,
all in the mind
as the measure for all things,
the shimmering strings
and their
chimeras.
I sit here in a paneled room
decidedly not reserved
for knowledge
as three unschooled scholars
unspool the blue spheres
that unify the baroque iconographies,
as the vehicles we,
beings made of light,
will inevitably create,
still uncorrupted
beyond the magnificent walls
of the Luciferian universities
where the penalty of error is death
and the narrow range of choices
make it easy for free will
to believe a friendly face,
or that a dark truth, once experienced,
could extend into infinity –
so easily did history
become a lie – it’s all in the mind –
what thinking made;
as it tore down any other thought
that threatened to turn belief,
unreachable.
So the path I am on begins
by beginning
all over again …
O Julia, we were once the same,
we watched ideas pop to life
inside a fireplace,
now if I could shake your hand,
there’s nothing we could say,
as if it all meant nothing in the end.
A smile, a laugh, a friendly curl of hair,
that’s all there ever was or needed to be.
It’s called love.
